


Painful Reminders

by 56leon



Series: Kirilisms' Tumblr Drabbles and Prompt Fills [2]
Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Scars, Therion is uncomfortable, and Cyrus is actually the one to blame this time, happy ending as always of course, like....lots of them, rating is for slightly graphic descriptions of wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-26 01:35:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15653076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/56leon/pseuds/56leon
Summary: Therion is uncomfortable with showing skin, and Cyrus is usually all right with that.However, push a little too far, and things might just blow up.





	Painful Reminders

Cyrus has never seen his lover shirtless. That may seem odd for some, since intimacy plays a large role in most relationships, but it's a level of comfort that Therion isn't at, and Cyrus doesn't want to push him.

It _ is _ ridiculous, however, when Cyrus returns to the inn one day after helping Ophilia with a request, turns the doorknob to their shared room, hears a loud crashing noise followed by a  _ distinctly _ Therion-esque curse, and walks into the room in time to see the thief leaving casually against the wall, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath and......

Wait.

“Therion, is that my shirt?”

He even has the audacity to look mildly surprised upon glancing up at Cyrus. “Oh, hey. Didn’t see you there.” Therion looks down at the shirt he's wearing - long sleeved, too big for his small frame, yes it’s most definitely Cyrus’s - before replying. “Before I stole it? Possibly. It’s mine now, though.”

“I should have known you would say something of the sort.” He’s well aware of Therion’s ability to dodge questions, and it seems like the thief just isn’t going to let up. Instead of pushing the subject, however, he simply moves further into the room to sit on the edge of the bed. He doesn’t fail to notice the way Therion moves away from him ever so slightly, but tries not to think on it too much. Instead, he turns his attention to what looks like a splotch of dampness on the cloth covering Therion’s side, turning the usually pristine white fabric a faint green. His first assumption is a salve of some sort, which is corroborated by the small tub of pale green cream sitting on the bedside drawer. “Did you get injured?” He’s not  _ particularly _ worried at that moment; yes, seeing his boyfriend hurt isn’t high on his list of welcome sights, but Therion can take care of himself, and seeing as he’s safe now, Cyrus can only do so much to fret over what was apparently already taken care of.

However, Therion shakes his head in response, denying Cyrus’s assumptions. “Nah. It’s just old stuff. Alfyn usually......” He trails off, and shakes his head again. “Never mind.”

It’s suspicious enough that Therion is so talkative, but even more so that he stops himself, and Cyrus frowns. “If something is the matter, then perhaps I can be of assistance?” He reaches out to at least place a hand on Therion’s waist, but stops, shocked when Therion pulls away even further.

“I’m fine.” His hands are at his sides, agitatedly resisting from curling into fists, and he glances away from Cyrus. “Seriously, it’s nothing.”

Cyrus can't help the confusion that laces his voice; once more, he's dodging a question, but it’s one that he already had half a mind to answer. As Therion moves to brush past him, Cyrus grabs his wrist, forcing Therion to stop. “What is possibly so important that Alfyn is allowed access but I....”

His eyes flicker between the tub of cream, the spot on his shirt and Therion’s face, and the question trails off. Therion looks to the side, refusing to answer what Cyrus has already pieced together by himself. “Do you get it now?”

He does, but it still doesn’t sit well with him. There's a lack of trust that Cyrus doesn't _ want _ to question, but being inquisitive is in his nature, doubly so whenever his boyfriend is concerned. It doesn't help that a bubble of jealousy had popped somewhere close to his heart when Therion had mentioned the apothecary. “Why?”

“Why what?” Asked casually, but with a bit of an edge; he’s back to being defensive, and it hurts, more than Therion may realize. It’s a habit that Therion has worked on, and while not perfect, Cyrus knows he’s at least  _ trying _ to be more open, especially with the man he’s in a relationship with. But hearing him close up again....Cyrus has to wonder if there will ever be a day where he doesn’t have to push to be the support that Therion knows he needs.

“Why are you hiding from me?” Because that's what Therion is doing, and they both know it. It isn't just _ something _ being swept under the rug, it's as though he's retreating back into the shell that has served more as his prison than his home.

Therion is still as stubborn as ever. “And so what if I'm hiding? News flash, I’m a thief. That's what thieves _ do.” _ It’s not an answer that Cyrus wants. It’s dismissive, as if Therion is pinning the blame on some immutable property that doesn’t exist.

“It is your  _ choice _ to hide.” He tries to keep the bite out of his voice, but he can't help it if a small bit leaks through. He pulls Therion closer, noting how Therion moves willingly, even if still hesitantly. It's a battle the thief is losing, maybe even one he doesn't want to fight as he turns to face Cyrus. Still, he doesn't look directly at him, instead opting to stare at the door.

Cyrus doesn't say anything, and for a long while Therion doesn't either, trying to maintain a stalemate that he knows he'll eventually lose. If Cyrus is one thing, it's too persistent for his own good. “I didn't want you seeing it,” Therion finally relents, still refusing to look at him. “Still don't.”

Cyrus knows he has a choice. He can ask  _ why _ , again, and get either a half-hearted response or a sarcastic retort back. Or he can drop it, apologize and leave with a heavy reminder that they'll inevitably have to have to this exact same conversation again.

He's about to say sorry when lithe hands move down to lift up the ends of his shirt- but not the shirt that _ he's _ wearing. “Therion,” Cyrus begins, but he's stopped by an intense look. He can't describe it as mad, or even upset, but the intensity is still equal, and it makes him pause.

“This is what you wanted, isn't it.” Therion poses it more as a statement than a question, and gives Cyrus no room to reply. “I’m not going to say it’s okay, because it’s  _ not. _ But you.....deserve. To know.” The way Therion struggles to admit it would be endearing under any other context, but as it is Cyrus just nods slowly. He’s already pushed Therion far more than he usually does, but as long as it’s of the thief’s own accord, he won’t stop the rolling stone that he’s already caused.

Therion slowly lifts up the shirt covering everything he wants to hide before discarding it on the bed and looking away, and Cyrus understands completely Therion’s hesitation from before. It would be a lie if Cyrus says that they're not ugly, but his distaste doesn’t come from their appearance; instead, they’re reminders of ugly actions against the thief. Slashes of varying sizes and depths litter his chest and stomach, while more prominent - and deeper - scars line the right side of his body. The single most painful looking scar looks like nothing but a large divot in his right side, closed up but still an obvious reminder of some type of puncture. Of all of the wounds, it’s the only one slathered in green cream, and Cyrus assumes it to be the most painful. He doesn't even want to begin questioning where they all came from, but considering Therion’s history.....he can hazard a guess. “They're not exactly  _ beauty _ marks,” Therion grouses softly to break the silence, but despite the casual attitude, the way he refuses to look at Cyrus betrays exactly how uncomfortable he still is.

His exact choice in words, however, is what surprises Cyrus the most. “Is  _ that _ what this is about?” He's almost offended at the insinuation; he prefers to believe that he doesn't come off as shallow as Therion assumes, if his fears of rejection are based purely on his physical appearance. “By the  _ gods, _ Therion, I'm more worried about your wellbeing than anything else.” He traces his fingers over the lesser wounds, and while Therion lets out a shuddering breath, he doesn’t stop Cyrus. “I would never think less of you because of these.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Therion retorts immediately, as if it’s something he’s been holding back for a while. Maybe it is, and maybe Cyrus is still too dense to realize it. It’s more than Therion has expressed before, at the very least, and he can’t help but let a bit of his shock leak onto his face as Therion continues. “You’re flawless,” he says bluntly, and Cyrus knows it’s not meant as a compliment. “Smart, attractive, basically nobility....and if you haven’t noticed, people like you are usually targets, not friends.”  _ And much less lovers, _ the sentiment goes unspoken but not unheard. “Can you blame me for-”

“Yes, I can.” Therion looks at him in surprise, the first time since revealing his scars that he's even turned to face Cyrus; he’s not one to interrupt others before they finish their thoughts, the result of being a professor for so long, but Cyrus doesn’t  _ want _ him to finish that thought. It can only lead to nowhere good. “You’ve known me for  _ gods _ know how long now, and you still have the gall to make these baseless accusations?” Therion says nothing in response, most likely taken aback by the outburst even if the reaction doesn't show on his neutral expression.

Cyrus, on the other hand, is clearly agitated, but he's still of sound mind. Realizing that getting mad would be counterproductive, he ignores every feeling in his gut telling him to argue more and instead grabs the cream off of the table, eyeing the scars that haven't yet been covered. “Show me what to do.”

Therion doesn't react immediately, but he eventually relents, taking the cream and rubbing it into one of the deeper scars until it fades into his skin. Cyrus follows suit, gently massaging the ointment into Therion's skin while avoiding the largest wound in fear of irritating the skin around it. He works in silence for a moment, trying to focus instead on the task at hand, before finally speaking again. He doesn’t address the previous topic, but whether it's out of courtesy or fear, even he can't tell. “Do they hurt often?”

“Not really.” Therion's muscles relax under every touch, stress dropping out with every application of the salve, and so Cyrus continues as he plays closer attention to Therion's words. “This is usually just a routine, but they actually did hurt today. Last time was after the fight with that ex-boss of yours.”

Headmaster Yvon; Cyrus remembers that as the day right before he had confessed to Therion. The threat of losing not only Therese, his most earnest pupil, but also Therion, the man he loved, had shone a whole new light on exactly how dangerous his situation was, and he had believed it an important decision to make in the heat of the moment. In retrospect, Therion  _ had _ been groaning in pain, and he  _ had _ told Cyrus to shut up and tell him tomorrow and  _ no it's not a rejection don't worry just go away damnit _ , but Cyrus had assumed it had been from his wounds sustained during the attack, not any previous afflictions. “I apologize for not noticing sooner,” he says quietly after turning Therion around to tend to the scars on his back. They're lesser in number, a good indication that he at least knows better than getting ambushed from behind, but they still look like hell, and his fingers trail over them even after applying the ointment as an unspoken regret. 

“You weren't supposed to,” is Therion's equally soft reply. There’s still a lingering discomfort at that thought, but Cyrus tries to tamp it down. Therion has already endured so much from him, and Cyrus is selfish for asking for more.

“It’s not like I hate myself for them,” he continues, trying to assuage Cyrus’s worries while still feigning nonchalance, and it’s true as far as Cyrus can see. There’s no self-deprecation when he speaks of his wounds, no malice against him or anything that’s caused the scars. It’s as if they simply exist, and it’s.....comforting, Cyrus supposes, to know that Therion has come to terms with his own past downfalls, even if he still isn’t comfortable with Cyrus seeing the physical reminders. “They’re just.......history, I guess.”

“They are  _ your _ history,” Cyrus interjects softly, his gaze trailing over each one individually before looking back up at Therion, who still refuses to look him in the eyes. “But everything here is proof that your story has yet to finish. Yes, life might not have been gentle to you thus far, but it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Therion’s still quiet, and there’s a brief pang of worry in Cyrus’s stomach that he’s said something wrong again, but it disappears when the thief finally replies. “Idiot.” He’s shaking slightly, and Cyrus can feel it under his fingertips, skin brushing softly as Therion’s sides tremble. It’s not a  _ bad _ tremor, though, if the way his ears turn red are any indication. It's the first blush Cyrus has seen on him since the start of their conversation, and he hopes that it's a sign that he's growing more comfortable after the tension from before. “No wonder people like you. You always say exactly the right things.”

Cyrus wants to laugh, wants to say that it only matters where Therion is involved, but he’s pretty sure that would be playing straight into his hands, and so he just smiles. “Are you feeling better?”

There’s a beat of silence before Therion replies. “Yeah.” It doesn’t sound like a lie, at least, and that gives Cyrus comfort as he reaches over to grab his shirt again and give it to Therion. However, he’s surprised when Therion refuses it, instead choosing to sit next to him on the bed, still shirtless. “It’s still weird, though.”

He takes that as a negative, and frowns, the hand that had moved to wrap around Therion’s shoulder instead resting on the bed. “Apologies. I....it wasn’t my intention to hurt you.”

Therion looks a bit surprised at the admission, before hiding his reaction under a smirk. It's a soft one, though, amused and disbelieving at the same time. “Intention or not, it’ll take a lot more than  _ that  _ to hurt me, Cyrus. I just need some time to get used to it.” As if proving his point, he reaches over to grab his arm and wrap it around himself, trying to relax at the touch.

It’s the most affection Cyrus has ever received from Therion, and he’s almost at a loss from the whiplash. From feeling untrustable mere moments ago to having Therion initiate contact he had been so adamant about avoiding, he doesn’t know whether or not the thief realizes just how nerve-wracking it is, not just for himself but for Cyrus as well. But it’s all right, he reasons as he holds Therion, fingertips grazing gently across tan skin and savoring the sensation as Therion shivers at the touch. After all, that’s all he’s wanted this whole time, for Therion to be comfortable around him, to not feel the need - or even the  _ desire - _ to hide things from him. And if it takes more time, time spent together like  _ this? _ Well.

“You have all the time in the world."


End file.
